


True Silver

by Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [22]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Ost-in-Edhil, Projects and Achievements of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Second Age, Worldbuilding, Worldbuilding Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-21 19:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: The midsummer sun beats down upon Ost-in-Edhil.  Celebrimbor is absorbed by the completion of his crafting district, and by the ideas and projects that have taken root in his mind.   Celebrían, meanwhile, is missing her cousin - and she is no longer content to watch from the sidelines...





	True Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> I loved your prompt about Celebrimbor and Celebrían working together in the Second Age - I just hope this is "worldbuild-y" enough.
> 
> Many thanks to Raiyana for the last minute beta work!

It was midsummer. The sun was dragon-fierce, burning against the rising towers of Ost-in-Edhil and glaring up from its paved streets. No wind stirred the air. Eregion gasped for rain – but the sky smiled its cruel blue smile, and the earth remained hard as bone.

Opening his study door with his elbow, Celebrimbor mopped sweat from his brow, then hastily gripped his stack of scrolls as they threatened to tumble out of his arms and back down the stairs. At least it was cooler inside – and the room was blessedly dark. He crossed to the desk, added the scrolls to the existing pile, then reached for his lodestone weights and rolled one of the documents flat.

“I know you're busy, cousin,” came a waspish voice from the corner, “but surely it's still courteous to greet your guests?”

“Bría!” He laughed as she stepped out of the shadows, her smile all mischief. Shafts of light from the window set her silver hair glittering, and he folded her into his arms. “No-one told me to expect you.” There was no flush to her skin, and when he kissed her cheek it was cool and dry. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not very.” She curled her hand around his wrist and shook it gently. “Tyelpe, where have you been? We've hardly seen you since spring.”

“Really?” His brow creased, and he tried to remember when he had last dined at the great pillared halls in the centre of the city. “No, I suppose you're right.”

“I know I'm right.”

He grinned. “Have you been sent to reprimand me?”

“Not at all. I decided to see for myself what has you so preoccupied.” Softly, she added, “I've missed you.”

And well she might, Celebrimbor thought with a dart of guilt. They were not near in age – his young kinswoman was not even yet _of_ age – but she had few friends, and since her earliest childhood he had played with her, read to her, taught her. Galadriel, he knew, had watched with a mixture of wariness and pride. Celeborn was forgiving enough and had encouraged their friendship, but even so, Celebrimbor had not been sorry for the move to Eregion, and for the chance to establish his own sphere of influence within the great city they planned together. 

He poured each of them a cup of cold water and drew her to his desk. “Look.” He tapped the scroll he had unravelled. “Much of the building work is complete – although no doubt we will need to expand again in a few years – but there is plenty still to do.”

“'A device for the swift transfer of ink to a print medium,'” she read aloud, tracing her fingers across the design. Her brows dipped. “Tyelpe, we cannot produce paper in the quantities needed to make such a thing worthwhile.”

“I have ideas about that too. But look – it would print onto plain cloth just as easily.”

She met his gaze, smiling. “This is why you insisted upon a crafting district.”

“Craft, art, science, philosophy...” He shrugged. “Call it what you will, it needs space to flourish, and a community of its own. Your mother understands that, or she did once.”

“When she worked with your father in Aman.”

A sharp look. “Yes.”

Gently, Celebrían took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Tell me how this works.”

“Are you familiar with the mechanics of a wine press?”

She folded her arms and gave him a glare that was frighteningly reminiscent of her mother – and, he suspected from the stories he'd heard as a child, of Indis. Plainer than words, it asked him, _What do you take me for?_

“Forgive me.” Celebrimbor raised a placatory hand and moved around the desk, pointing to various parts of the design carefully inked on the scroll. “Well, this machine works on the same basic principles. We would cast metal type pieces in moulds, in the same way that we make coins or anything else, and set them in a frame, like so...”

He watched her as he explained, her sweet features crinkling in concentration, and he smiled as understanding lit her face like daybreak.

“It's brilliant.” She looked up at him, eyes dancing. “What else are you working on?”

He reached for another scroll, and then changed his mind and looked out of the window. The sun would be setting soon, and the cloudless sky would keep the evening cool. He offered her his arm. “If my lady is at my disposal?”

“Why, of course, my lord,” she returned solemnly, taking it.

For a moment they were both silent – and then she quirked an eyebrow, and the pair of them dissolved into laughter.

Outside, the light was softening into the gentle gold of evening. The sweet fragrance of summer grass drifted down from the plains, and it mingled with the scent of the stone-dust that hung in air. It was true that the buildings were now largely complete; most of the structures were habitable, but the walls and rooves were so new that they seemed almost naked, vulnerable as freshly scrubbed skin – and for the most part they were devoid of embellishment. Here and there a few of the taller towers stood unfinished, awaiting their turrets and tiles as a child might wait for a cloak and hood before an outing. The sounds of industry echoed through the streets – the singing chip-and-clang of hammer against chisel; the call of one worker to another; laughter and whooping cheers either as something was completed, or as one of the sculptors or stonemasons made an error and was teased without mercy.

“What is he doing?” asked Celebrían, tilting her head curiously at a chestnut-haired Elf atop a tower of scaffolding, who was boring holes into a wall.

“Calandil? He's working on a rigging for his lamps.” Celebrimbor's right arm swept an arc over their heads. “When he's finished, jewel-coloured lights will hang above the streets of Ost-in-Edhil and burn through the night like a rainbow.”

Her lips curled into a wondering half-smile. “But why?”

“Why not?” he returned. “We all need light to find our way through the dark – and may a thing not be beautiful as well as useful?”

She bowed her head in acknowledgement.

“Come this way.”

He led her into one of his forges. Few were at work here, at this season and time of day; the heat from the fires and the relentless pounding of the sun made the place unbearable, except at dawn and dusk. A few, though, were gathered around their workstations, drawing out fledgling blades in heaps of banked coals, pouring molten silver into ring moulds, or sharpening near-finished knives and swords on whirling grindstones. 

Pride rose in him like a new-kindled flame. “My brotherhood.”

“Brotherhood?” Celebrían put a hand on her hip. “And here was I thinking I could see women as well.”

He smiled. 

At the back of the workroom, an array of completed weapons hung on the wall. Almost reverently, Celebrían reached for a dagger with a black, mottled blade, then remembered herself and turned back to her cousin. “My mother and father asked you to make these.”

It wasn't a question. “Yes.”

“Teach me.”

“Teach you what?”

“Everything. Forging, fighting...” She gestured in the direction of his chambers. “How to make paper, how to build those machines that obsess you night and day and drive you to neglect your family. Tyelpe, if there is going to be a war –”

“We do not know that.”

Her eyes flared; she took a sharp breath and then exhaled slowly, patiently, as though her cousin were a recalcitrant child. “I'm not a babe in arms, Celebrimbor. I know well enough why we moved East.” She looked up at him, flecked grey eyes suddenly dark with fear. “It cannot be Morgoth?”

“No.” He moved to her side and slipped an arm around her waist. “No; he has gone far beyond our reach.”

“What, then?”

“I cannot say. Not yet.” Gods, she was small – as delicate as the whorled shells he had once collected from Sirion's coves. “Is this why you came to see me?”

She paused, clearly thinking. “Perhaps.”

“Do your parents know you're here?”

“I don't need their permission.”

“You are not yet of age.”

“Your grandfather was not of age when he wed Nerdanel.”

He chuckled. “If I were you, I wouldn't be in a hurry to follow his example.”

“Oh, really?” She wriggled free from his embrace. “If that's what you think, then why is the eight-pointed star etched into everything that you and your people create?”

She had him there, he admitted. He studied her face, fierce as a summer storm, and on impulse he lifted down the blade she'd admired. “Are you sure about this?”

“Don't play with me.”

“I need to know, Bría. This isn't a story, and it is certainly not a game.” He hardened his gaze. “Are you sure?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

Celebrimbor felt his mouth curl. “Good.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, and felt her bones jutting sharp beneath his fingers. Smiling, he offered her the dagger's hilt. “Welcome to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Raiyana kindly gave me permission to borrow her nickname for Celebrían. Thank you, Raiy!


End file.
